


Waxing Poetic (and other Kinktober stuff)

by Ladeeknight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kinktober 2019, Knifeplay, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Wax Play, sadist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 19:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20953721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladeeknight/pseuds/Ladeeknight
Summary: This is one of at least two pieces I am doing for Kinktober. This one is the period piece set in the traditional GoT time. It is an AU where Sandor and Sansa have a reunion after he comes back from the Dragon Pit in King's Landing, but shortly before Dany arrives with her dragons. It will probably be low on plot, but I wanted you all to at least have an idea where int the time line this is. Come along and see if I can keep up with the grueling demands of Kinktober. Should be fun.





	Waxing Poetic (and other Kinktober stuff)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first kinktober. I am not looking at the prompts ahead of time, because I like to be surprised so that I can write in the moment serendipity. So I apologize for if this piece lacks plot or a certain level of continuity. This more of an exercise of getting something out everyday than story telling. I have tagged what I think will come up, but as I see what the new tags are I will add them if needed.

Sansa’s nearly inaudible gasp sent a spasm of fear and other things down Sandor’s spine. From his vantage behind and slightly to the left of her direwolf carved chair, he saw nothing immediately amiss. His eyes roved over her person. The tops of her teats curved above a dove gray velvet bodice laced tight, the better to show off her charms as if a man wouldn’t have to be blind and slow not to know her worth.

Another deeply in-drawn breath set those teats trembling. _What is with the little bird tonight? _Sandor thought, as his eyes began scrutinizing the crowd. Jon was talking to his lords about the impending arrival of the Dragon Queen to help fend off the white walkers, and by the way they were taking it, perhaps some of them were blind and slow. They were probably the same lot that needed to be enticed by cinched waists and spilling teats. There were rumors that Sansa was barren as she did not catch a pup all those months that Ramsy had her. These words were only spoken once in Sandor’s hearing as he made a bloody example of the speaker. Sandor was not a religious man, but he uncategorically thanked gods old and new that Sansa escaped the fate of whelping for that sadistic maniac, and he’d hear of it spoken about in no other way. As Sandor scanned the crowd for any of these upstarts or any other dangers, he saw nothing shocking about the assembly besides their staunch Northern rigidity.

A third inhalation had Sandor pacing restlessly out into the room so that he could see Sansa's face. He kept to the side of the great hall least he disturb the proceedings or get so far away from her that she would be vulnerable to attack. She was usually still and silent during these things unless she felt something needed saying. Then she was all frozen fire, cold and steel voiced. When Jon would have reassigned him to a company on the walls, and Sansa claimed him for her sworn shield. She did so ringingly and in no uncertain terms, proclaimed her unwavering trust of him as he’d protected her even in Kings Landing, where the discovery of doing so would have cost him his life. That was not exactly as Sandor remembered it, but he preferred the warm hall to the cold wall…for many reasons.

As Sandor came even with her and could see her face, he found her flushed and her breathing rapidly. Usually, when Sansa was caught in a waking nightmare, she became pale as a shade. _Something is wrong, but how wrong? _Convincing the Northerners to accept the Dragon Queen’s aid without hostility was important. Sandor did not want to spook the sheep just as the bastard was bringing them into the fold.

This time Sandor caught the movement of Sansa’s flinch though he could no longer hear the intake of her breath. Because he was very good at spying out pain in an opponent by the way they held their body, he could tell that the pain originated in Sansa's neck or shoulder on the right side. He focused his gaze there and saw by the flickering chandelier directly above her that there seemed to be some irregularity in the skin on her right shoulder where her collar bone swooped gracefully in to meet it. For a heart-stopping moment, Sandor thought she’d been burned as the raised ripple across her otherwise smooth skin was achingly similar to his own face. As he watched, a molten tear from the chandelier above her rained upon her shoulder in a long dribble. Instead of shifting or covering her vulnerable skin, Sansa sat straighter so that the wax would fall across the curve of her breast and run searing into her cleavage. She met his eye just as that happened, and her plump lips, darker than he’d ever seen them, parted. Sandor would later have sworn he felt that gasp in his own mouth.

_What in the Stranger’s name is she about,_ he thought as he took a step toward her. As he began moving, every man in the hall jumped to his feet and started cheering and brandishing swords._ Jon must have finally won them over, _Sandor thought as he pushed and weaved through them.

Sansa was already standing when he came to her side. “There you are, Clegane,” she chirped, her eyes had a dark dazed look about them, and though she was looking at and speaking to him, he understood that the words were for the benefit of those who were pushing forward to speak with Jon. “I find I am not feeling well. Will you escort me to my chambers?” Jon threw her a worried glance, and she broke eye contact with Sandor to shake her head at her cousin. “I’ll be fine. I am just tired.” She didn’t meet her cousin’s eyes, though.  
###  
The third time Sansa swayed and put her hand on the wall for support Sandor checked the corridor before coming abreast of her and offering his arm. “I thought you’d never ask,” she said, fluttering coppery lashes over shining eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the dim hallway, but her eyes looked as dark as her cousins.

“Are you drunk?” he asked bluntly as they continued to move down the hallway.

“No,” she panted. She sounded out of breath. Looked it to, damn his eyes for straying where they didn’t belong. “Are you?”

“What? No, of course not. You know I don’t drink anymore.”

“It’s just that I’ve not been able to catch you staring at my breasts in a very long time.”

“If you don’t want people staring, perhaps you should cover them up,” he growled through his own self-loathing. _She knows. It's likely the walls for you now and no better than you deserve_…but by what she’d just said, she’d always known.

“There is no reason to get surely,” she chided as she lengthened her stride to quicken their pace. “And who says I do not want you to look?” Sandor had slackened his hold on her arm in case her increased speed was to escape his filthy gaze. Shocked by her question, he let her arm fall. So many replies came to mind, some lude and some ridiculously poetic, but fortunately, none escaped his mouth. He kept pace with her because he didn’t even have enough coherent thought to stop. She turned her to look up at him through her lashes. “What, no growly come back?”

“You told me not to be surely. I only have one other mood.” They were almost to her chamber.

“Oh really, what’s that?” she asked coyly.

He understood the signs now, flushed, dilated pupils, breathlessness, but could still not grasp how they applied to him. _There’s only one way to find out._ “Guess,” he rasped as he sprang at her, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder, the smooth side, not the one marred by wax, and pinned her to own door. Sansa made a high cheeping sound that settled quickly into cooing as he began sucking and scraping his beard and teeth along her throat.

“Lusty,” she guessed as his hands fitted to her round arse. He answered by hoisting her against the proof. She whimpered and locked her ankles at the small of his back, effectively perching on his cock. He growled an affirmative and ground against her. “Let’s take this inside,” her voice was high and tremulous.

Sandor obliged, turning to put his shoulder to the door. Sansa’s long, strong legs gripping him tightly made it easy to free a hand for the latch, though the iron implement was cold and hard in his hand that had recently been full of warm, soft flesh.

Sansa's room blazed with lit candles, and Sandor longed for the dimness of the corridor even as he strode toward the bed. The Stranger knew that Sandor had fucked in all sorts of random places, but in his head, he most often imagined laying Sansa down in a bed.

The sight of the real Sansa was even lovelier than he’d ever conjured in his mind. Her braid was coming loose in shimmering copper waves, and her pale skin shown rose gold in the candlelight. Sansa's chest heaved so that she might burst the seams of her gown at any moment.

When Sandor put his hand up to grope her, not ungently, he encountered the wax trail. She gasped as he brushed the wax free from her skin. The skin beneath was slightly pink, a mild burn. Something in his chest contracted, and he bent to lick the raw skin. Sansa made an ecstatic little noise and bucked against him. “You like that little bird?” he asked, hope kindling that he might not make a mess of this.

“I do. I want more,” she panted, and lust and pride thundered through him. “Unlace me and bring a candle.”

Sandor stopped mid swipe of his tongue. He lifted his head to meet her eyes. “You want me to burn you?” His thoughts moved sluggishly, much like cooling wax through a brain suffering from a distinct lack of blood. “Earlier wasn’t an accident.” It was not a question. “I saw you move to catch more of the candle drippings.”

“Your powers of observation are just one of the things that make you invaluable,” she replied breathlessly, avoiding the question with more chirping and fluttering.

“Sansa,” he growled warningly.

“It’s not a _bad_ burn,” she protested.  
“Not like _mine._”  
Her lips made an o as if this was a new connection for her. “No, of course not. I just…like the way it stings.”  
“Like it?” Sandor barked incredulously. A familiar echo of the old rage was sweeping up him as he swept a hand up her skirts. Her legs were already spread to accommodate him, so it was easy to find her sopping cunt. And it was wetter than anything he’d ever dipped his cock in. A sound somewhere between groan and growl ripped up through his ruined vocal cords. Sansa bucked against his hand, but her copper brows were drawn together in irritation. “The pain makes you wet.”

“I did not invite you here to discuss my proclivities.” She made a good show of trying put cold steel in her voice, but he could feel that she was still molten at her core.

“No, just to _attend_ them.” He stroked her through her small clothes. She bit her lip, but could not quite stifle a groan. Her hips rose again to meet his hand. “That I’ll do, but I can’t hurt you. You were right all those years ago.” He met her haunted eyes and willed her to understand.

Sansa gave a sharp nod and wriggled away from him. His heart fell through his boots as he let her go. Sandor was sure his refusal had lost him his chance. _ Fucking idiot Clegane, _ he castigated himself as she turned her back on him. _She’ll have some other asshole who can follow orders up here in a tail wag. _ His head fell forward dejectedly.

“Sandor,” her use of his name plucked at his torn heart, but also made his head rise. She was kneeling on the bed, her long straight back still to him. Her chin nearly rested on her shoulder as she craned her lovely neck to look at him. “Are you going to unlace me?”

Something snapped in him, and he pulled his belt knife and began parting her laces all in one smooth movement. Sandor would not waist a single second least she change her mind. Sansa gasped as the sharp edge grazed her skin, but Sandor took care not to draw blood. His mouth followed the blade as fabric spread in it’s wake. As he licked lower than any gown dared dip, Sandor's tongue encountered dozens of raised lines. Some were thin, and some were…not. He swore viciously.

Sansa turned to face him, the front of her gown still clasped to her teats, her eyes dewy with tears and need. “You can take your look after, but right now…can we not just pretend? Unless I’m too…disfigured for you to continue.”

Since the day that Gregor had found him with a toy knight, Sandor had never pretended a gods damned thing. “Can’t do that either.” Sansa’s copper sparked lashes fell over her sapphire eyes and spilled tears that flashed gold in the candlelight. Sandor, resigned to how shitty he was with words, cupped her face as she had once done for him. “I don’t need to pretend anything when I’m with you. That’s why I’m here. Silly little bird. I-“there was a beat of silence, as no more words came.

Sansa’s lovely eyes blinked open, one brow taking flight in query. Then her lips crimped softly in understanding as if she’d read his ruined face like a book. Her hands snaked up his shoulders and locked behind his head. Sansa used that hold to pull them together, and she kissed him. She put her mouth on his and licked at his lips, whole and ruined. Sandor had no idea what to do, so he copied Sansa’s actions just like he would if he was trying to learn a new fighting maneuver. That went on for several moments as his heart pounded, and his cock swelled. Once he got comfortable with the rasp and slide of their faces, he remembered that he still had hands. He used them to shuck her out of her dress with exquisite slowness mapping every tip and curve of her terrain like it would deliver him victory in a battle.

Sandor realized that he was still holding his knife when he pricked his own finger with it as his hands came together at her narrow waist. Sansa’s eyes followed it keenly as he laid it aside. “Could you just scrape the tip over my skin a bit?” Sandor felt his brow lower. “Just lightly. Not so it hurts, but the moment just before?” She didn’t wait for an answer but prostrated herself across his lap.

“It-the naked blade doesn’t…bother you?” Sandor asked as he fingered the knife thinking of the way he felt about open flames, even small candle-sized ones. _This blade had been my trusted companion for many years. Even when Elder Brother had locked away my sword I always had this. It's more tool than weapon. Perhaps the same is true of a candle. _

“It’s all twisted up for me now,” she admitted blushing hotly, her head craned up to look at him, her eyes never leaving the blade.

“Aye, I know a bit about that myself,” he confessed as he grasped the hilt of his knife. He spun it in his hand, and he saw her pupils dilate. An answer rumbled through his chest. He bent and ever so carefully drew the tip of his knife down her back parallel to her spine, just hard enough to leave a white line on her pale skin. Sansa let out a trilling little squeal and pressed her hips down into his thigh, while her whole back broke out in goose flesh. The audible and visual proof of her pleasure kindled a swell of pride in Sandor that spilled down his spine to pool hot in his groin. He repeated the action with his blade, and this time Sansa wriggled her gorgeous round bottom. He swore and without thinking, flipped the knife in hand again and slapped the flat of the small blade smartly across her backside. “Hells’ bells woman, I could have cut you! If you want me to do this, you need to hold still.”

Sansa bit back a squeal of delight at the slap, but instead of holding still, she sat up and rammed all her weight against him through her palms. Sandor allowed himself to be knocked into the pillows and marveled at the flash of copper and roses as Sansa moved astride him her lovely teats bouncing. She was panting as she pushed his tunic up to his armpits and began scrabbling at his laces. Her usually nimble fingers seemed all thumbs, and he put his knife aside and swatted her hands away. “Let me before you make a knot, and I have to cut these as well.”

In a moment, his cock sprang free, and Sansa, who had been rocking against his good leg while he unlaced, pounced on it. In a nearly disconcertingly professional manner, she guided him into her slick cunt and slid down his cock, taking all of him into her velvet heat with a needy moan. She was so tight and wet that Sandor nearly lost himself. “Fuck woman, slow down, or this is all going to be over in a blink.”

“I can’t,” she moaned as she started bobbing up and down. “I want…” Her rosy nipples puckered tight as her teats jiggled with her efforts. Sandor put his hands up reverently to cup them. He’d heard some women liked that, and he’d dreamed of doing this to Sansa’s more than was decent. “More!” she keened. The word had a ragged frustration to it, and she quickened her jouncing pace. Sandor gently squeezed her teats. Sansa slapped his hands away and pinched her nipples sharply. He let his hands fall and just watched the show as she writhed above him. He could feel her walls tighten around his cock as if they yearned toward release and then loosen as Sansa gave a frustrated groan and ground against him. This happened three times before she extended a long slender arm to the candle by the bed. Reflexively, he grabbed her wrist, causing the wax to spill over both their hands. Sansa threw her head back and came screaming his name as he swore and blew the flame out.

“Gods dammit woman, you’d set the bed aflame and never even know it,” he growled. The jolt of fear produced by even a small flame coming near him in such a vulnerable setting flashed rage through him like burning pitch, consuming all his tender feeling toward Sansa. He could still feel her slick cunt clenching around him as he rolled them over and began pounding into her as he’d longed to do in his foulest rage fantasies. He plunged in and out of her quivering cunt savagely while she continued to cry his name ecstatically. Sandor pounded his fear and anger down into Sansa, and she took it until he could no longer hold on. He ripped free of her and sprayed her with hot ropes of cum, that looked surprisingly like hot wax. She writhed as though they were, and Sandor felt his limpening and spent cock twitch.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think.


End file.
